alan royse
5/5
Parking: plentiful and free
Before sunrise one arrives to the highland, parks the carriage in the designated location according to the customs of the land, prepares the necessary luggage with essential provisions and raiment for the upcoming herculean endeavor. Gather strength at the large book house near by where you will encounter other travelers, sportsmen who have be beaten down by weather and time. Descend to the nether lands where the fabled garden rests adjacent to the haunted swamp. As one approaches, gaze at the unattended luggage of prior sportsmen who have undertaken this feat before and yet have left no trace and whose fate is unknown to both kith and kin alike but only to the divine tribunal. One tarries at the majestic gates delimiting the legendary forest renown to world over that has claimed untold numbers of those before you. But you have traveled at length and at large thus far, no time to the back to the plow. You recollect the many moons of preparation invested thus far to set your feet on this esoteric soil. At this point, you make the last review to ensure your estate is in order, and the favored kin included in the final will and testament. Now it is advised for one to make the necessarily offering of incense to the deity that has out of benevolence or wrath has brought you thus far, pleading the sweet fragrance will grant you favor, obscure wrath and grant safe passage, keeping the woodland terrors, rusalka of lore, the menehune and swamp beasts at bay. You plead your petition be granted despite your shunning of the good counsel of your clan's paterfamilia, and absconding your machinations from the fathers and ancients of your village. You bring out the stale bread to start a trail of crumbs to guide you from a future bind.
Upon completing the necessary final preparation, one summons the strength of Bulat the Brave of old, crossing the awful threshold boldly into the forbidden forest, you question your wisdom in venturing alone with out guide, sherpa or guardian. Lo, darkness quickly descends upon you, despite being morning, the suns rays defeated by the enormity of the canopy. a foggy mist drops like a thick blanket, rolling in from the swamp. Your crafty scheme of a bread crumb trail has already been foiled. There's no backup plan. You are alone. You gently place half the loaf on the ground in hopes of preoccupying any malevolent denizen of the forest, if not appeasing their anger.
Walk quietly not to stir up the garden dwellers and upset the unseen spirits of the woodlands. You unknowingly break a twig, you hear the scurrying tiny foot steps in the canopy of either menehune or squirrel, you close your eyes and take a deep breath, petitioning your deity to incline His ear to the words of your heart, to hearken to the cogitation of your mind.
You hear the murmuring of children and youth passing by, as if you aren't there, you keep quiet, fearing the menehune. You hear the voice of maidens asking to help guide you, you keep silent, holding aloof from the plans of rusalka. Your heart melts, your spirit departs but your make certain not to manifest it lest the unseen menace accosts you. You stumble headlong, your tunic is partially rent asunder, and a section of skin in twain with droplets slowly congealing from the wound. But at the same time you feel the moist, warmth of the Earth, consoling you for a time. You tarry briefly in the ephemeral, fleeting comfort. You collect yourself, wipe the sweat off your brow and march forward confidently but discreetly.
Alas, benevolent rays of the sun break forth beyond the canopy. As you enter in the luminous clearing, behold a kaleidoscopic colibri, fluttering across and beyond the vile, viridescent swamp into the clear horizon, an auspicious omen indeed.
You escaped the dangers of the woodlands but don't celebrate. You have trespassed the realm of the swamp beast and his nocturnal consort rusalka. Slowly make haste. You continue on your journey, glad you are among the lot of the living. You vow to never entertain a fools' errand again.
